


Shade of Him

by SushiOwl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Derek is sad as fuck, Dirty Talk, Lots of Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism, but yeah, he thinks he might be going crazy, it all works out in the end, it's a ghost story, it's super fluffy at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SushiOwl/pseuds/SushiOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and Stiles are wrapped up in a whirlwind romance. Wanting to be closer to Derek, Stiles asks for the bite. Instead of becoming a werewolf, Stiles dies. But just because Stiles is dead doesn't mean he’s gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shade of Him

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by [WhatTheHale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthehale).
> 
> I **do not** give my consent to have my works listed on goodreads.

If there was one thing that Derek was well aware of about himself, it was that whatever emotion he felt, he felt it strongly, like his feelings knob was always dialed to ten. Anger was unyielding rage. Sadness was crippling sorrow. Fear was blinding terror. Want was burning desire. Happiness was radiant joy. It was because of this that he knew one thing without a sliver of a doubt.

He was head over heels in love with Stiles Stilinski.

He couldn't remember a time when he looked upon that grinning face so covered in adorable freckles and moles and not feel the urge to worship him with kisses. He knew that, logically, when they had met four years ago, they hadn't been caught up in the whirlwind romance that they were in now. But the past felt so far away.

They could hardly keep their hands off each other now. In the six months they had been dating, it was like every time they saw each other Derek's skin burned for them to be pressed together. It was like his nerves were reaching out for Stiles, like he needed to hold him to be complete.

They spent a lot of time in bed.

Stiles had moved into the newly renovated Hale house after three months of them being together to avoid being apart as much as possible. Though Derek worked and Stiles attended classes at the local community college, they were in constant contact. And when they came back in contact it was with feverish whispers of 'I missed you' and 'I love you' against one another's lips.

It was when they were rolling around tangled in sheets that Stiles finally asked.

"Derek," Stiles gasped, writhing as Derek pressed kisses and swiped his tongue along every inch of him, as if he hadn't already memorized every inch of him. "I—I've been thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself," Derek said against Stiles's navel, his lips curling into a smirk as Stiles laughed.

"Jerk," Stiles replied, and it was the kindest, most affectionate form of the word ever. "No really, sta—stop for a second." He arched with a groan as Derek dragged the flat of his tongue along his hipbone.

"What?" Derek asked, rubbing his stubble-covered cheek along Stiles's thigh.

"C'mere," Stiles told him, grabbing onto Derek's hair and pulling him up.

Derek just leered at him hotly, going in to kiss Stiles's spit slick and swollen lips, but he met fingers instead. Stiles was smiling at him, but for once it wasn't mischievous. His eyes were dancing, but with pure delight.

"I want you to give me the bite," Stiles said in a quick, breathy way, like it was a secret announcement he couldn't wait to get out. Derek's eyes went wide, and Stiles wrapped his arms around his neck to pull him down into a hug. "I want to feel like you do. I want to run with you under the full moon." Stiles swallowed, licking his lips, and Derek felt himself hanging on his words. "I want to be with you completely."

Derek's whole body trembled with contained excitement. He buried his face in Stiles's neck, grinning large and stupid against the heated skin. Stiles's humanity really was the only thing separating them from bonding on another level, a level above existence. They would be mates. Nothing would ever be able to come between them.

Soul mates.

Derek tilted his chin to put his lips against Stiles's ear. "You're sure?"

Stiles let out all of the breath in his body in one rush, nodding rapidly. "Yes. I'm sure. I've never been more sure."

Derek lifted his head, smiling at him, before he brushed their lips together. Stiles pressed up into the kiss, chuckling, before he moved back just long enough to give him a giddy expression then turned his head away to bare his long, pale throat. Derek licked his lips, leaning in and pressing his nose beneath Stiles's ear to breathe him in deep. He always smelled sweet and clean, and soon he would smell earthy too, the comforting scent that all werewolves had.

Licking a line along Stiles's throat and smirking at the shiver it caused, Derek realized he didn't have to gather his courage. He had felt doubt before when turning someone, but now he felt nothing but excitement. He set his lengthening fangs against the supple skin, hearing Stiles sigh, and his teeth sank in as his red eyes shined in the darkened room.

Stiles gave a tiny keen of pain, and Derek held him a bit tighter, his taste buds singing at the blood that flowed against his tongue. Even that tasted like beauty. He withdrew his teeth, letting them shrink back into something human, but he kept his lips over the wound. He lapped at the puncture marks, giving a growl as he felt Stiles's thighs come up and grip his hips.

Derek fucked him slow, tonguing the bite long after it stopped bleeding, and Stiles was a gasping, squirming ball of pleasure underneath him. Derek could tell by his moans and the nails scratching along his back that Stiles had given up coherence and into only feeling. He finally lifted his head and smiled at the look of total bliss on his face, eyes glossy and mouth open in moans.

Soon those eyes would look back at him with the purple glow of an alpha's mate.

Their orgasms rocked them as one, and they held each other, deteriorating into a mass of laughter. Derek could feel Stiles's happiness just as well as his own, like an ecstatic energy filling them both up to the point of bursting. It took a long time for them to calm down, and when they fell asleep it was wrapped tightly in each other's arms, safe and warm.

###### 

Derek woke up to the sound of choking and the smell of blood.

He jerked up in bed so fast that the world tilted, and he flailed his arms to get his balance, whipping his head toward the source. Stiles was on his back, deathly pale a staring unseeingly at the ceiling as he convulsed and coughed up thick, clotted black blood. Derek felt a scream die in his throat as he lurched toward him, pulling him into his arms and turning him so he didn't choke on the blood.

The bite mark on Stiles's neck was swollen and flaming red with infection, black rivulets oozing out of it. His body was denying the bite and failing as it fought it. Derek's heart thudded hard as panic rose in him like bile. This couldn't happen!

Not again.

"Stiles!" he cried, putting a hand under his cheek, his fingers smearing through the blood. "Stiles, please, look at me!"

Stiles swiveled his wide, terrified brown eyes toward him, a shaking hand coming up to grip his wrist. "Der...ek..." He seized, retching up a violent spew of black.

Derek twisted his arm to take hold of Stiles's hand, lifting it up to press it against his cheek. His skin smelled like rancid sickness, pain and fear. "I'm here," Derek whispered against his knuckles, squeezing his fingers. Stiles's hand didn't grip him back, all of the strength going out of it. "Stiles!"

What was he supposed to do? How did he stop this?

Derek turned and grabbed the corner of the sheet that had been kicked to the foot of the bed, jerking it up to wipe at Stiles's face. He looked at the bite, before he extended a nail into a claw lancing the skin. His heart clenched and his stomach flipped at the low wounded sound Stiles made. Blackness oozed out of the bite, and Derek mopped at it frantically with the sheet, pressing into the swelling to help the drainage.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Derek kept saying, until he tossed away the sodden sheet. There was so much infected blood. He laid Stiles down gently, before he clambered over him, slipping on the hardwood, and raced to the bathroom. He tore the towels from the cabinet, shoving them into the sink and turning on the hot tap. "Come on, come on," he hissed until the towels were wet enough. He rung the excess out of them and ran back to Stiles.

He prayed the heat would help pull the infection out of the bite. If anyone was stubborn enough to get through this, it was his Stiles. He kept that thought in his mind as he folded one of the towels in fourths and pressed it against the wound, using another to wipe at the new blood bubbling between Stiles's lips.

"You're going to be okay," Derek told him, his voice high and shaking, watching Stiles's eyes flit around like he couldn't see. "Hey, hey, I'm here. I'm right here. I've got you." He drew in a ragged breath. "Please don't go." Stiles hacked, staring straight up. Derek wiped at his black stained lips. "Stiles, look at me."

When he didn't, Derek leaned over him, cupping his cheek. He watched as, like a dimming light, the life faded from Stiles's eyes until it was nothing.

###### 

No one would look at Derek at the funeral, but he didn't expect them too. He wasn't sure he could meet their eyes for long before dropping his gaze anyway. He could feel they way the blamed him for Stiles's death, and he agreed wholeheartedly. He sat in the back row at the viewing, watching everyone as they passed the casket and offered Jonathan Stilinski their condolences. 

Scott was beside himself in the front row, doubled over and sobbing as Allison and Melissa hugged him, murmuring to him and rubbing his back. He'd been in an inconsolable state since Derek had been able to stop staring at Stiles's lifeless body long enough to call someone. Scott had screamed at him as his body had been collected, but Derek hadn't been able to discern the words, only hearing ringing in his ears.

As the last person moved away from the casket, Derek stood up to have his turn, but he stopped dead when he realized that Jonathan was glaring at him with such a plain hatred in his expression. Derek stared back, stunned, and he couldn't make his feet move. Jonathan kept him pinned there with his detestation until the casket was closed and carried toward the grave site. Derek stood there with his body trembling as everyone moved to follow.

He watched the coffin being lowered into the grave from a distance, holding tightly onto the red rose he had wanted to lay onto the wood as a goodbye. But he couldn't go over there, not with everyone crying and the sheriff watching his only child being put in the ground. He couldn't interrupt them, so instead he just clutched the stem of the rose so hard that the thorns pierced his palm. He didn't mind. He welcomed the pain, let it ground him.

As the people around the grave dispersed, Derek stayed where he was, planning on having his moment when everyone was gone. He wasn't expecting for Scott to whirl his head at and find him, yes flashing yellow as he advanced on Derek. He held his ground.

“Why!” Scott asked once he got close enough, lashing out with his hands and grabbing the front of Derek's suit to pull him in, their faces only a few inches apart.

Derek didn't fight the hold. “He asked me to,” he replied, and his own voice sounded like it was down a tunnel, so far away.

Instead of wolfing out and tearing out Derek's throat, Scott gave this sad little whine, chin trembling as new tears poured down his reddened cheeks. “Didn't you stop to think that after all the people who've died and all the lives you've ruined to just say no?” he asked, his voice a broken thing. When Derek didn't reply, Scott got angry and shook him, eyes glowing again. “Who says he was yours to take from us!” he roared in his face.

Derek didn't answer, so Scott just threw him savagely onto the ground as Allison came up to pull him away. Derek didn't try to get up, and nobody moved to help him.

###### 

Days later, the bedroom still smelled like sickness. Derek had disposed of the mattress, the bedding and the towels, but no matter how long he left the windows open, the scent remained. So he didn't sleep in that bedroom, instead taking one of the guest ones. He still didn't sleep, instead just staring at the ceiling as the lighting in the room changed as night turned to dawn. Then he got up and went downstairs to sit unseeingly in front of the TV.

He discovered that while he was capable of feeling every emotion to its max intensity, he was also able to feel completely without emotion. Numbness was everything. Food was like ash in his mouth. He reacted to the ringing of his phone with dismissal. The only person he had contacted since Stiles's death was his employer, who had told him to take all the time he needed.

Isaac had come over once, but Derek could hear the blame in his voice as he asked if he needed anything. So Derek just told him no, that he would be fine, letting him leave. Stiles and Isaac had grown so close over the past couple of years. There was no one that Stiles had been around that didn't love him, so Derek had no friends left that weren't wounded.

As for family, Cora was studying abroad, and he hadn't told her. He didn't want her to do something rash like come back to Beacon Hills because her pathetic big brother's life was falling apart. Peter had gone off after hearing about another pack south of them, no doubt chasing power. While they had been best friends once, they were anything but now. He wasn't even sure Peter would care.

So Derek remained alone, which he preferred. At least this way he didn't have to talk about his feelings to someone. He wasn't sure what he was say if they asked about how losing Stiles made him feel, because right then he just... didn't. He couldn't think about it. Every time he tried, his heart seized and his eyes stung, so he pulled back into the nothingness where it was safe. 

His eyes drooped as he watched the images flashing across the TV screen, unsure what was going on. It had been four days since he'd slept, and it seemed the wariness was finally catching up to him. He slid down onto his side, letting the TV continue to run as he let his eyes close. He hoped that his exhaustion was so great that his brain wouldn't be able to put forth the effort to dream.

When Derek woke up, the TV was off.

He blinked at it as the haze of sleepiness lifted, not understanding what was different at first. When his brain finally clicked, his brows came down and he pushed himself up, studying the black screen. He looked around, tilting his head up and inhaling deeply. He couldn't smell anything out of place, no new scents, so no one had stopped by.

He wondered if maybe his TV had simply gone out, a problem with the power or something, but when he leaned over and pressed the power on the remote, the TV came on just fine. He blinked, tilting his head as he tried to work out this puzzle. How...? Why...? Finally he just gave up and turned the TV off again.

It was some wee hour in the morning, but it was as good a time as any to be awake. He got up, moving into the kitchen to get something to eat. After choking down a sandwich, he went up stairs to take a shower. This kind of routine of food, TV and hygiene was the only thing keeping him from laying in bed all day long.

When he opened his closet and rummaged through his shirts, he found one of Stiles's that had made it into his closet by mistake. Stiles had his own closet and dresser on the other side of the room, and he hadn't touched them. His face fell as he looked at it, and he reached out to touch it. The fabric was soft, almost threadbare, and he pulled it off the hanger to bring it to his face. Under the smell of their detergent was the unmistakable smell that was Stiles. Derek's knees were suddenly unable to hold his weight, and he dropped to the ground, doubling over the shirt as choked sobs were ripped from his throat and hot tears poured from his eyes.

Stiles was gone. His Stiles, his adorable, silly, amazing, beautiful Stiles was gone. Stiles had given him his love, his body, his heart and his being. Stiles had given him everything, and Derek had taken and taken and taken, hungry for him every moment of everyday and drunk off of his brilliance. Stiles had given selflessly, and Derek had taken his life.

Derek gave a hiccuping whine, pressing the fabric of the shirt into his face so that it was hard to breathe. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice a strangled, wrecked thing.

A cold breeze brushed along the his neck, causing the hairs there to lift as goosebumps rose on his skin. Derek lifted his head with a sniff, looking over to check if he had left the window open. It was closed, and the curtains were still. He glanced around, not sure what he was looking for as his muscles tensed.

Was he alone?

As soon as it came, the sensation went, and Derek felt ridiculous. Of course there was no one there.

###### 

Derek figured that he was past the denial and isolation stage of mourning, though just because he knew Stiles was gone didn't mean that he was going to leave his house. The next stage was anger, and he wasn't prepared for the onset of that. He was in the kitchen, making a sandwich when he accidentally tore the piece of bread on which he was spreading mayo.

All of the sudden he heard Stiles's voice in his mind, 'If you use the back of a spoon, you won't rip the bread.'

Why hadn't he remembered that? He gritted his teeth, turning and throwing the plate with the bread on it against the wall with a loud crash. Was he going to forget all about Stiles now? Had he loved him so little that him being gone a week meant he was going to lose all his memories of him?

He tore a drawer out of the counter, the wood splintering as it hit the ground and silverware going everywhere. He didn't stop, instead ripping another drawer out and littering the floor with large spoons, spatulas, tongs and the three sets of teaspoons and tablespoons they had somehow ended up with.

It was his fault, all of it. He tore a cabinet door right off and sent it crashing into the island with a shout. If he hadn't been so selfish, then Stiles would still be alive. If he had just let him be instead of pursuing a relationship with him, then he would still be in college and happy. He might have gone out of state even, completely safe.

Derek sliced his toe on a knife but barely even felt it as he staggered back, tossing the toaster across the room before falling onto his ass on the ground. He leaned back against the sink and looked at the scattered utensils and trail of blood he'd left, knowing it was too much and not enough. He buried his face in his hands, unsure of when he had started crying.

Scott was right. He should have known better. He shouldn't have tried to turn Stiles when he knew there was a chance he would die. He should have been satisfied with what he had. He should have told Stiles no, that it was a bad idea. They might have fought, but they would have gotten over it, and Stiles would still be here.

"It's all my fault," he bit out through his teeth. 

"No, it's not."

Derek jerked his head up, nearly braining himself on the cabinet door behind him. He didn't see anyone, so he pulled himself up and maneuvered his way through the mess on the floor out into the dining room. He knew he had heard a voice, but the more he concentrated on it the faster it faded away, like the memory of a dream.

"Hello?" he ventured, taking a deep breath again. He couldn't smell anything, but he knew he had not hallucinated those words.

"Derek."

He whipped his head toward the entryway where the voice was coming from, racing toward it and looking around frantically when he didn't find anyone. "Who's there?" he asked the emptiness, feeling boiling rage start up in him now. Someone was playing with him. "Show yourself. I mean it!"

He saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up, growling because he could have sworn he saw someone race across the walkway at the top of the stairs toward his and Stiles's bedroom. He took the stairs two at a time, following the movement. He skidded into the bedroom, fangs and claws out. Whoever it was messing with him, they'd just trapped themselves.

He went into the bathroom first, pulling the shower door open almost hard enough to rip it off its hinges. When he saw nothing, he went back out into the room, opening his closet and ripping all of the clothes out. He broke some hangers, but he didn't care. That proved fruitless, so he went over to the other closet, Stiles's closet.

Reaching out for the door knob felt like putting his hand in the freezer, and his surprised exhale came out as a billow of white in front of his face. He took an unsteady step back, then another.

"Stiles?" he whispered so softly that it was hardly audible to his own ears.

A soft brush of cold moved along his cheek like a breeze. He stepped forward again, waving his hands out in front of him, searching. But there was nothing to be found.

###### 

Derek wished the lunar eclipse was at all soon so he could get really drunk. Maybe he could go ask Chris Argent for some wolfsbane, that way he could suppress his metabolism and drink tequila until he dropped. A black out would be a blessing right about then.

It had been two days since the _experience_ , and the more he thought about it, the more ridiculous he felt. His house was old, and although he had rebuilt it, there was no proof that it couldn't be drafty. It wasn't haunted, because ghosts don't exist. Even if they did, Stiles would hate him too much to pull a Casper the Friendly Ghost on him. Derek deserved a full on poltergeist.

He was lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what he could have done instead that would have meant Stiles would still be around. "I should have taken him to the hospital," he said flatly, letting his arm drop off the couch and hang there. "They would have known better than me how to handle an infection." He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. 

"I should have waited," he went on with a shrug. "I should have explained to him the risk. That was my responsibility." He ran his fingers idly along the carpet. "I failed him."

Suddenly his heart was in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "It was my fault, so why didn't I die instead of him?" He smacked his hand over his eyes as the tears started up again. He had been crying so much that his eyes and face burned with it. "No one would miss me, why didn't..." He let out a choked noise, biting his lips together.

There was a scraping noise, and Derek lifted his hand to look around. He didn't see anything right away, so he sat up, scrubbing his face and nose with his fingers and trying to find the source of the noise. He stopped when he looked over the fireplace and found a picture had slipped into a crooked position.

For Stiles's nineteenth birthday, Derek had whisked him off to Disneyland, where Stiles had acted like a total kid for three days. Derek hadn't minded at all. He loved seeing Stiles happy, even if they had both ended up in Mickey Mouse ears at one point. That was what the picture was of: them both in the ears standing in front of the enchanted castle, grinning like a pair of goofballs. It was one of Derek's favorite memories.

Derek got off the couch, moving around it to go right the picture. But he staggered to a halt when the frame simply moved back into place by itself. He stared at it, unsure of how to react, before he rubbed at his eyes.

That couldn't have just happened. He must have imagined it. A cold draft was one thing, but objects moving by themselves was another entirely. It must have been some kind of hallucination brought on by the fact that he hadn't slept in a few days again.

"I'm not crazy," he murmured to himself, taking one more look at the picture before he stumbled back to lie on the couch again. "I'm not losing my mind." He swallowed as he curled up on his side, wide eyes darting about. "I'm just tired."

A cold caress moved through his hair. "Sleep."

Derek whimpered and buried his face in his arms, gritting his teeth. "I can't sleep," he whispered to the voice. "I can't. I miss him too much."

The blanket that he and Stiles kept draped along the back of the couch for impromptu cuddling times slid down and wrapped around Derek's body. Derek kept very still, worried that if he moved this phantom presence would leave him. He was so lonely and delirious that the cold touch—fingers, they were fingers—moving through his hair was a comfort.

He fell asleep thinking about the times when Stiles had played with his hair this way.

###### 

Was Derek really about to Google ghosts? Not only was he embarrassed as to his state of mind, but he was dubious that the Internet would be able to provide any real information. He would probably just find sites about horror movies or new age-y forums run by people who thought there was a spirit in everything.

He stared at the Google bar for a long moment, before he typed in 'haunting' and pressed Enter. There were a couple million results, which made him sigh and lightly tap the laptop keys. He looked through the first page. There was the definition of 'haunting,' which was “continually reoccurring to the mind; unforgettable.” That made Derek feel even more touched in the head.

The next result was a link to the IMDB page of the 1999 remake of The Haunting. There was a pang in Derek's chest when he realized that he'd watched that movie with Stiles during one of their horror movie marathons. He hadn't been able to pay attention to Liam Neeson or Lili Taylor because he'd been too focused on the solid heat of Stiles pressed up against him and his excited face. He'd loved teasing Stiles when there was a jump scare and he had buried his face in Derek's shoulder.

He shook that memory away, continuing down the page. There was a list of reportedly haunted places in the world, but he honestly didn't trust Wikipedia. There were 'haunting' synonyms (eerie, ongoing, obsessive) and antonyms (boring, dull, ignorable). And 'haunting' as defined by Dictionary.com: remaining in consciousness, not easily forgotten.

Then there was '16 Signs That Your House Is Haunted' by some guy on a website called About.com. Derek narrowed his eyes, because he doubted that if hauntings were real, they all had the same signs, but he clicked the page anyway. Unexplained noises? Did voices count? Because honestly he was starting to suspect an onset of schizophrenia caused by stress and grief. Door, cabinets and cupboards, opening and closing? That he hadn't experienced. Lights turning on and off? Nope.

Items disappearing and reappearing? Not exactly, but what about moving items? He still wasn't entirely convinced that actually happened, but... moving on. Unexplained shadows was the next one, and Derek paused, actually reading the description this time. 'The sighting of fleeting shapes and shadows, usually seen out of the corner of the eye.' Derek chewed on his thumbnail as he glanced around the room. That he knew had happened. There was no way he could mistake the figure he'd seen as anything other than a body in motion.

Before he started hyperventilating, he went onto the next, which was strange animal behavior. No. Then there was the feeling of being watched. That made him stop and glance around again. He had felt that intermittently for a while now, but it wasn't the kind of feeling that made him antsy. It was more like the feeling that there wasn't someone else there with him because they wanted to be, that they enjoyed being in his company. So did he.

What the hell was 'mild psychokinetic phenomena?' That sounded like it belonged on the SciFi channel. According to the page, it was witnessing objects moving instead of just hearing them. 'Do you see the TV or radio turn on?' Not exactly, but... the picture. He cleared his throat and moved on.

Feelings of being touched? Yes. Just, yes. Cries and/or whispers? Well, he wasn't exactly sure if the things he kept hearing were either. Honestly they didn't have tone to them, so they didn't exactly sound like they were being carried by a voice. There was just nothing and then words, like he felt them more than heard them. He couldn't explain it even to himself. 

Hot and cold spots? No hot ones, but plenty of cold ones. And they weren't so much spots as moving bodies of air. With limbs. And fingers. Ahem, next. Unexplained smells? No, that definitely hadn't occurred. All he could smell was his own scent around the house. He didn't know what he would do if he suddenly smelled Stiles, other than start sobbing. He would give anything to bury his nose in that scent and fall asleep.

The next four signs were called 'extreme phenomena,' which apparently meant they were rare. The first was moving and levitating objects. Derek was just going to keep thinking of the picture moving until it made sense or he was able to dismiss it. 

Second was physical assault. Derek dropped his eyes to the keyboard. If Stiles wanted to beat the crap out of him, he would have welcomed it. He wondered if the otherworldly knew that. 

The third sign was other physical evidence, such as writing on paper or walls, or handprints and footprints. Other than feeling a cool hand against his skin, he had no other evidence to lend to this.

Finally, apparitions. No, Stiles hadn't appeared to him. A soft, hopeful voice in his head added 'yet.' 

Derek groaned, covering his eyes with his hands and leaning back in his chair. “What am I doing?” he asked the empty room, before he gave a dry laugh. “This pointless.” He dropped his hands and looked back at the screen, his eyes popping wide at what he saw there. Written in the Google search bar, next to the blinking vertical bar of the insertion point, was one word.

Sourwolf.

Derek laughed until he cried.

###### 

Derek was ready to go back to work a couple days later. Well, he wasn't ready so much as he was pretty sure that if he stayed home where objects and shadows moved and there were those comforting words, he was going to go truly mad.

He was already talking to the presence, which was a level of strange he refused to admit to himself. He would ask if it was there, and he would either feel a touch or nothing. Once he had told the phantom, "I miss you," and he had felt arms wrapped around his neck from behind for just a second, long enough for his lips to twitch up at the corners.

He didn't care if the presence was due to drafts, a figment of his imagination, or his house being possessed by a demon. He was going to pretend it was Stiles for as long as it eased the pain.

That meant he missed the presence when he left the house for work, because it didn't follow him. He spent a lot more time wishing he was home, and because of that he forced himself to leave each morning. Staying at home and entertaining his lunacy on the off hours was fine, but he couldn't afford to lose his job.

Besides, when he got home and the cold brushed along his cheek, he had to smile and say, "Were you lonely while I was gone?" A phantom hug was better than nothing.

He was lying on the couch one night after work, eyes closed as cool fingers brushed along his neck and shoulder, when there was a knock on his door. His head jerked up, and the touch was gone, and anxiety filled him to the brim. Who was that? Why were they here? He couldn't get a handle on himself well enough to scent the air, instead staggering over to the door.

When he opened it, he was not prepared for who he saw. "Scott," he choked out, taking a few steps back. "What... what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Scott said, studying the door frame for a moment before he stepped inside. "Isaac said you haven't been answering your calls or texts."

Derek glanced over at the coffee table where his phone was, dead because he hadn't charged it in a week. The last time he had used it he had called his boss to let him know he was coming back in. Then he had just let the battery run out because there was no point to charging it.

"I've been busy," he lied, badly.

Scott tilted his head up, sniffing. "Yeah? With who?"

Derek looked at him, shocked. "What?"

"Who have you been with?" Scott asked, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Who has replaced Stiles? He hasn't even been dead a month, asshole."

Derek backed away toward the living room. "No one," he said, so confused at this line of questioning.

"Don't lie to me!" Scott barked at him, starting toward him. "Isaac said he came over to see if you were still alive, and he heard you talking to someone. Did he mean so little to you that you can be with someone else already?"

"No!" Derek tried to shout, but it came out as a stammered whine. Isaac had heard him talking to the presence in his house. That meant he had made his craziness known. He licked his lips urgently. "No one can replace Stiles. I love him."

Scott growled at him. "Did you tell him that before you killed him!"

There was a shriek that made them both cover their ears, and the light bulbs above them all exploded, leaving them in darkness. The sound, a kind of scream that only Lydia could rival, died off, leaving Derek with his ears ringing and black spots dancing in front of his eyes. 

Derek slowly straightened up from his hunched position and Scott was rubbing his ears, leaning against a wall. Derek looked around, breathing hard as his heart thudded in his chest.

"Jesus, what just happened?" Scott asked as he blinked at him, squinting up at the burst bulbs.

"I don't know," Derek said, moving around him and hissing as his bare foot met glass shards. "You should go." He turned toward the staircase. "Especially if you're here just to yell at..." He stopped dead, staring up with his hand poised in the railing.

Standing at the top of the staircase in that old red hoodie he loved so much was Stiles, his hands in the kangaroo pocket. The light from the window behind him seemed to shine through him, making him ethereal. He blinked at Derek like he was just as surprised as he was, before he smiled softly at him.

"Stiles," Derek keened softly, putting his foot on the first step.

"What?" Scott asked behind him.

Derek tore his eyes away from Stiles to look at Scott, his face twisting into a strange, elated expression. "Stiles, he's—" He pointed up the staircase, before his face fell when he looked and found he wasn't there anymore. "No, he was right there!" He thundered up the steps, whipping his head around and looking around frantically. "Stiles, wait!" He burst into each bedroom, skidding around on the floor in his haste. "Come back!"

As he raced back into the hallway, Scott was standing at the top of the staircase, his eyes wide with either worry or horror. Derek didn't care, he pushed right past him, going into the master bedroom and letting out a broken whine when he didn't find who he was looking for.

Derek collapsed onto the floor, his legs giving out so he had to catch himself with shaking arms. Stiles had been there. Right there! He knew he had seen him. If only he had been close enough to touch him, to lean in and kiss that smile. But Scott had divided his attention, and now Stiles was gone again. Strangled sobs poured from him, each one like a razor in his throat.

"Derek?" came Scott's hesitant voice, and Derek looked over at him, finding worry a just a touch of fear on his face. "Derek, what..."

Derek wiped his face, before he moved over to Scott, grabbing his arms tightly. "He's here," he told him in an urgent way, his fingers digging in. "Stiles is here."

Scott's eyes were huge, and he tried to take a step back but Derek held him in place. "Stiles is dead," he said slowly.

"No, you don't understand!" Derek all but screamed in his face. "He's here! I feel him everywhere. Just now, I—"

"Let me go," Scott said, trying to pull away again.

"Scott, I saw him! He's still here. He—"

"Let go of me!" Scott screamed, putting his hands on Derek's chest and pushing him hard enough to make him stagger into the door frame behind him. "Stiles is dead!" Scott cried again, shaking his head as he backed toward the stairs. "And you need help."

Derek watched, stunned, as Scott raced down the stairs and out the door, not bothering to close the door behind him. Derek slid down the door frame onto the ground as he heard Scott start up his dirt bike and peel down the drive. He stayed where he was, gazing at the door as it slowly moved, swinging closed with a snap.

###### 

The bedroom didn't smell rancid anymore. It smelled like the fruity shampoo Stiles had accidentally bought once and then discovered he loved it, so it became standard. It also smelled like Stiles's deodorant, which was like fresh cotton. When Derek wasn't at work, he would lie on his bed, eyes closed, and just breathe in the scents. And when he dreamed, it was happy instead of lonely.

He felt the bed dip and looked over, a bit disappointed that all he saw was the indent in the bed and not Stiles's form. It had been a few days since he had seen him at the top of the stairs, and now he spent all his time wishing he would come back. Derek turned and reached over, his hand passing through cold air.

“I wish I could see you,” he said, turning and curling around the dip in the bed.

“It takes a lot of effort,” came the words drifting into Derek's ears, and he closed his eyes as the cool fingers brushed through his hair. “I'm still getting the hang of it.” 

“I'd help if I could,” Derek said, curling up further and letting out a sigh.

“You do, just by being here.”

Derek's lips twitched up a little, and he brought his arm around the dip in the bed. If he pretended, he could believe he was holding Stiles. He could believe that nothing was different, if just for a moment.

“You're my anchor, Derek.”

Closing his eyes a bit tighter, Derek drew in a swift breath. “I wish I could be more. I wish I could be with you.” 

The cold hand in his hair stilled, before it drew back entirely. “Don't even think about it.”

Derek swallowed, opening his eyes and sitting up to stare at nothing. “Stiles, I—“

“No!” The scream was enough to knock Derek onto his back, covering his ears as they rang. “Do you think that would make me happy, Derek? I'm doing my best here to exist on the same plane you do, and you're thinking about giving up? Don't you dare!”

Derek swallowed around a choked sob, rubbing at his ears. “I miss you.”

The cold dip in the bed shifted, moving over Derek and lying on him in a way that was solid even though Derek knew his hand would pass right through him. “I'm not gone,” Stiles said, and Derek could swear he felt lips against his jaw. “I will become solid again. All you have to do is wait.”

Derek whined in his throat, wanting so terribly to hold Stiles again.

“You know, all we're missing is one more before we become the cast of Being Human,” Stiles said into his ear.

Blinking, Derek drew his brows down. “What?” he asked. There was a high laugh, and Derek felt goosebumps cover his body as he let himself grin. He missed that laugh.

“You don't remember? It's that show about a ghost, a werewolf and a vampire all living together. Well, the word 'living' is relative.” Stiles let out a sigh of cool breath across Derek's jawline. “We just need a vampire. Though in the show it was the vampire and ghost that were together. The werewolf went and made his lady friend into a werewolf and got her pregnant.” He went silent for a second. “I never saw the third season. So I don't know what happened after that.”

“Oh, that show,” Derek said, trying to remember anything about it other than that he had been trying to read each time it came on. “Well, I don't plan on getting anyone pregnant, so I'm probably not following the script.” 

“Hm,” Stiles replied, shifting, and Derek felt his weight on his stomach like he was sitting up. “Well, in the show the vampire was the sexy, leather-wearing one, and I can't imagine anyone being as sexy as you.” Derek felt cool fingers move down his sternum. 

Derek sucked in a breath, eyes fluttering shut again. "Stiles," he whispered.

"You know, I've been watching you for weeks," Stiles said. "You've been denying yourself."

"I can't," Derek replied, shaking his head. "Not without you."

"I'm right here." Those words were spoken right into Derek's ear, and he gave a little keen. "And I want you to do it."

Derek let out his breath in a rush when he felt the front of his jeans being tugged on, the button popping and the fly being pulled down. He shivered violently when cold fingers pulled his cock out of the hole in his boxers, giving him a stroke. "Ah, Stiles," he whispered, opening his eyes and feeling disappointment when he didn't see dancing brown eyes staring back at him.

"Here," Stiles said, grabbing Derek's hand and jerking it down to wrap around his cock. "My fingers are too cold."

"Stiles, I—"

Stiles shushed him, and he felt cold lips against his jaw again. "I never told you, but I have a voyeuristic streak. I want to watch you, Derek." When Derek's fingers tightened around himself, he gave a pleased hum.

Derek stared at the ceiling, unable to get into the mood or get hard. It was so weird. No matter how he stroked himself, it wasn't working. And in the silence it was easy to think he was alone and pathetic. After a couple minutes, he stopped with a short sigh. "Stiles, this isn't going to happen, I can't—"

"That's a word I've never heard you say before," Stiles said, though there was an amused lilt to his voice. A cold hand touched Derek's face. "Close your eyes, Sourwolf. And listen." After Derek glowered at nothing for a second, he did as told. "Listening?"

"Yeah," Derek replied, aware that he was lying there with a hand on his dick and awaiting instruction from a ghost.

"Before we got together I used to fantasize about you," Stiles said in his ear, and Derek drew in a surprised breath. "I used to wonder what it would be like to kiss you, to hold your hand and to get fucking wrecked by your cock."

Derek whined softly, feeling said cock twitch against his fingers and start to fill. "Y—yeah?" he asked, licking his lips as he spread his legs a little further.

"Yeah," Stiles replied, the cold breath making him shiver. There was a smile in that voice, the bastard. "I used to jack off and suck on my fingers, wishing I was sucking you off." 

Derek could distinctly remember the first few days when they'd started having sex and Stiles would push him down onto the bed or couch or crowd him against a wall before going to his knees. He'd been very determined to learn how to give the best head ever. Derek hadn't minded one bit. He started jerking himself to that memory, breathing quickly through barely parted lips.

"Do you know that the first time I bought lube, I drove two towns over so no one would recognize me? I ran out of gas on the way back, and had to do a walk of shame to the nearest gas station."

Derek let out a surprised bark of laughter at that, and it melted into a soft moan.

"But when I got home finally, I was hard out of anticipation. I locked my door and my window _just in case_ , before I fucked myself on my fingers and pretended it was you." 

Stroking faster, Derek put his head back and imagined Stiles working his long, clever fingers in and out of his hole.

"Every time I hit my prostate I'd go 'uhn, yeah, Derek, right there.'"

Derek cried out softly, tossing his head farther back to bare his throat and clenching his eyes shut tighter. God, he could feel his orgasm fast approaching.

"I was always a total mess afterwards. You know one time right after I came, you texted me and Scott about pack business? So when we went to see you, I was still all slick and open. I just watched you talk, and all I could think about was you pushing me against a wall and sliding right in."

Derek stiffened with a shout, toes curling as he sent rope after rope of white heat across his stomach. Fuck, if he had known back then, if he had had the insight to smell Stiles, he may very well have pulled him away and sexed him up.

It took awhile for his rapidly beating heart and quick breath to normalize, and he felt giddy in the aftermath. Giddy and sticky. He looked down at his mess with a sour expression.

Stiles laughed in his ear. "Go shower then come back for sleep. I'll be right here."

###### 

There was a knock on the door, and Derek already knew that he didn't want answer it, but he did anyway. He sighed through his nose when he met the earnest faces of Scott and Isaac. There wasn't an ounce of anger or blame in their expressions, just worry and some fear. He rolled his eyes up and stepped back for them. 

"Come on in," he said, and they did. "What can I do for you two?" he asked, swinging the door shut.

"We're worried about you, Derek," Isaac said promptly, and Scott gave him a look like he had planned a much longer speech to ease into that. Isaac didn't seem to care. "Scott told me that you've been seeing Stiles, talking to him."

Derek was beyond caring about what that sounded like to other people. "And?" he asked flatly.

Isaac and Scott looked at each other, and Scott swallowed before he said, "I've talked to Ms Morell, and she agreed to talk to you if you, y'know, need someone to talk to. She's really nice."

Derek stared at them for a moment. "You want me to talk to a therapist," he said in that same dead tone. They gave him their best puppy dog eyes, and he crossed his arms. "I don't think so. I'm not crazy."

"You can't be talking to Stiles, Derek. He's dead," Scott told him firmly.

"Yeah? And now he's a ghost." Derek drummed his fingers on his bicep as they stared at him disbelievingly. "It's just as much a surprise to me as it is to you." All of his muscles were tensed, coiled tight like he was a wind up toy ready to spring. He didn't want to talk about this with them. He wanted to get back to his comfortable movie watching with Stiles caressing his back. The only reason he wasn't shouting was because he could feel Stiles behind him near the stairs, watching.

But Scott and Isaac were none the wiser. Isaac took half a step forward. "Look, Derek, losing Stiles was a hard blow for all of us, but—"

"He's not gone," Derek growled at him, before he pointed approximately where he could feel Stiles's presence. "He's right there."

At least Scott and Isaac looked, but they didn't see or feel a thing. "If you won't talk to Ms Morell, will you talk to Dr Deaton?" Scott suggested. "He would understand all this ghost stuff and be able to give advice."

Derek very childishly wanted to ask Scott if he was aware that he'd just referred to his best friend as 'ghost stuff,' but he refrained. He knew what Scott was doing. Deaton was the pack confidante. He had a wealth of advice to give on matters of the heart. Scott just wanted Derek to open up. As much as the psychological influencing annoyed him, he had to admit that Deaton was aware of quite a few things supernatural. It couldn't hurt to get his opinion.

Sighing with sagging shoulders, Derek nodded. "Fine, I'll talk to Deaton."

“Great, let's go,” Scott said, going over to the door and pulling it open expectantly. 

“What, now?” Derek said, taking a step back and glancing between them. He'd been prepared to go see their emissary much later, maybe after Stiles got a hang of his physical form. 

“Are you doing anything else right now?” Isaac asked.

“We don't want you to back out of it,” Scott added, just a bit blunt.

Derek halfheartedly glared at them for a second, before he looked over to where he could feel Stiles standing. There was a cold nudge on his elbow, and he wilted. “Fine, let me get my shoes,” he grumbled, before he went to do just that.

Scott drove, which meant Derek was stuck in the passenger seat of the crappy car Scott had inherited from his mother before she got her new one. Isaac was a ball of jittery agitation in the back seat, and it took a lot for Derek not to turn around and yell for him to calm the hell down. Isaac was never good at holding in his emotions. He must have thought Derek was really losing it.

Deaton was waiting for them in the lobby when they arrived. He gave them all a kind smile. “Scott, Isaac, if you wouldn't mind waiting here. I'd like to talk to Derek alone.” He gestured to his office, and Scott and Isaac lingered behind. Once inside the small office, Deaton leaned against the edge of his desk and nodded to the visitor's chair. “Have a seat.”

Derek didn't move from where his back was almost touching the closed door. “I'm not crazy,” he said, crossing his arms. 

“I never said you were,” Deaton replied, voice neutral though there was calculation in his eyes. “Scott said you've been seeing and talking to Stiles?” When Derek didn't reply, just narrowed his eyes a little, Deaton shrugged a shoulder. “Can you tell me about these interactions?”

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Derek looked away, eyes skimming over things on the walls. There was a diploma from a university then a certification confirming that, yes, Deaton was indeed a licensed veterinarian. There was even a poster of a kitten dangling from a tree branch with the words 'Hang In There' underneath it. Derek couldn't deny the smirk it brought to his lips. 

“It started with cold spots,” he began reluctantly, still not looking at the other man. “And drafts, brushing against my cheek and through my hair. I thought it was the house at first, but...” He sighed and looked down, scuffing his heel across the floor. “Then I heard his voice.”

“What does he say to you?” Deaton asked gently, encouraging.

“He tells me it's not my fault,” Derek said, drawing up his shoulders because even as Stiles continued to reassure him that he had wanted the bite, he continued to blame himself for Stiles's death. How could he not? “He moves things too, like this—this picture on the wall. And he touches me, and I just know it's him, I...” He trailed off, bringing his hand up to cover his eyes as they stung.

Deaton moved over slowly, taking him by the elbow to guide him over to the chair, and Derek went without complaint. When Derek moved his hand, Deaton was holding some tissues out to him, and Derek glared at them for half a second before he took them and pressed them to his eyes. “Go on, Derek,” Deaton said, still supportive.

“I can feel him. Fingers and lips. They're cold, but they're still his. I would know them anywhere.” He wiped the dampness from his eyes then started wringing the tissues in his lap, tearing them into strips. It was an anxious habit he'd had since he was a kid. His mother used to come into his room and find strips of paper all over the place and just sigh.

“Has he appeared to you?”

“Only once,” Derek replied, eyes still on his own hands. “He says it takes a lot of effort to become visible. He says he is trying to figure out how he can become solid so we can be together again.” He frowned at the mess of tissue strips on his thighs, before he glanced up to see Deaton holding out his trash bin. He picked up the tissue remains and put them in the trash.

“Scott was there when Stiles showed up,” Derek went on, brushing off his thigh and lifting his eyes to Deaton's. “Scott was yelling at me, he—he blames me, and I get it, but then Stiles let out this scream. It was terrifying. I've never heard anything like it, not even from Lydia. A bunch of light bulbs exploded, and then he was just there. But he was gone almost instantly, and I ran around the house looking for him.” He sighed, slouching down and covering his eyes with his hand. “And now Scott thinks I'm crazy. Can't blame him, just talking about it makes it sound so out there.”

“I believe you.”

Derek slowly lowered his hand. “You do?”

“I do,” Deaton replied, before he looked through the window of the door out into the lobby where Scott was pacing and Isaac was wringing his hands. “What they believe is limited to what they have seen.” He turned his eyes back to Derek and gave him a small, mysterious smile. “I have seen a fair amount more than they have.”

Derek felt a welling inside of him, like he was about to vomit questions all over his emissary. “What do I do?” he started, standing up all of the sudden because he couldn't keep still. “How do I make it easier for him to take on a physical form?”

“Derek,” Deaton tried as Derek started to pace quickly back and forth.

“Is it possible for him to become completely solid again? Is it possible for him to come back to life? And I don't mean like a zombie, I mean real flesh and blood human again. If so, how do I help him?”

“Derek,” Deaton said again, grabbing onto Derek's arm and stopping him. He lifted his hands to Derek's face, cupping his cheeks and making him look him in the eyes. “You're trying to take on too much responsibility where you can't. It's always been your way.” Deaton smiled again. “The only thing you can do is be there for him. You are the force he holds onto to stay in this world.”

Derek sniffed loudly, looking down as Deaton dropped his hands to his shoulders. “So I just wait and do nothing?”

Deaton patted his shoulder. “You won't have to wait long.”

Derek glanced up. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“The full moon is in two days. Its power doesn't just affect werewolves.” Derek blinked at him. Was the full moon so soon? He'd forgotten all about it. “It will be nice to see Stiles again. I have missed him.”

Derek was taken aback, unsure of how to respond to that. During his partially stunned silence, Deaton chuckled and moved him to the door, giving him a friendly clap on the back. “Now I must get back to the cats and dogs. It was nice seeing you boys.”

Scott was up, looking between them. “So he's not crazy?” he asked as Isaac chewed his nails behind him. 

“You'll just have to wait and see,” Deaton said, before he disappeared through the door into the back.

Scott stared after him. Isaac came to his shoulder. “Dude, does your boss ever give straight answers?”

###### 

Derek hadn't gotten much sleep since his visit with Deaton. Stiles stayed with him, talking to him about mostly nonsensical things when combing his hair with cool fingers didn't put him to sleep. He was so excited he couldn't contain it. He was failing to do simple tasks. Stiles had to stop him before he brushed his teeth with shaving cream.

He was sitting on the couch as the minutes ticked by and the sun set. He could feel Stiles over by the window, and he couldn't wait until he'd be able to touch him, to hold him. He just wanted to pull him into his lap and wrap his arms around him again.

"Derek," Stiles said suddenly, and Derek perked up. "Whatever happens, you know I'll still be here, right?"

Derek blinked. "I know," he said slowly, scooting forward to sit on the edge of the couch.

"If I don't—if I can't become solid, don't be sad, okay? I hate it when you're sad." Stiles sounded so anxious and unsure for the first time since he'd started communing with him from beyond the ground.

Derek dropped his eyes. "I don't know if I can make that promise," he told him honestly, because of course he would be upset if they couldn't touch. "But I am happy you're here at all."

"Okay," Stiles said after a moment, and Derek felt fingers lifting his chin. "No matter what, I love you."

"I love you too," Derek replied, unable to help his little smile. He would never stop loving Stiles. Ever.

Stiles drew his fingers away, and Derek eyed where he felt him move. Outside the sun was completing its descent behind the hills that gave Beacon Hills its name. The room fell into darkness for a few beats of Derek's thundering heart, before the moon moved out from behind the clouds.

Derek watched, as if in slow motion, as Stiles appeared before him. It started at his beat up sneakers, moved up his jeans, over the faded red of his hoodie, and finally his full lips, button nose and vibrant brown eyes. Derek couldn't breathe as Stiles looked at his own hands, turning them over before he touched his own chest. Then he turned toward Derek with a smile as bright as the moon's beams.

Getting up on shaky legs, Derek reached out for him, and Stiles caught his hand. He felt solid, warm and _real_. Stiles pulled his hand up, putting it over his cheek and leaning into it. Derek took in a ragged breath, tears pouring out of his eyes.

"Hey," Stiles said, lifting his other hand to wipe the tears away. "I told you not to be sad."

"I'm not sad," Derek rasped, grabbing a handful of Stiles's hoodie and jerking him forward to hug him tight. "Far from it."

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek's shoulders, face buried in his neck. He let Derek cry, just holding onto him and gently nuzzling his jaw. When Derek's breathing returned to normal he drew back and smiled at him. 

"There's something I want to do," Stiles told him with his eyes dancing.

"What?" Derek asked, and Stiles bit his lip before he pulled away and ran away suddenly. "Stiles?" He called after him, following. The front door was open, and when Derek went through it, he found Stiles about twenty feet away at the tree line. "What are you doing?"

Stiles smiled at him, before he pointed at the moon and his whole form shifted and waved like a mirage. In his place was a beautiful wolf, white except for a brown blot over part of his face, covering his ear, one brown paw and a brown tip on his tail. He gave him a wolfish grin, wagging his tail then dashed into the trees.

Derek was out of his clothes so fast he probably ripped his pants. He shifted into his wolf, pure black as night, and tore after Stiles, his blood singing with the thought of a chase. He caught the smell of cotton, a scent so distinctly Stiles, and ran so fast that be barely felt the dirt beneath his paws. He saw a flash of white and put his head down, trees whipping past him as he pursued his mate.

He saw Stiles standing proud and angelic atop the rock formation overlooking the town. Stiles looked at Derek, before he threw his head back and howled. The sound was like a symphony to Derek, making him grin all happy and stupid before he got himself together and answered the howl with one of his own.

Stiles jumped down, trotting over and bumping his head under Derek's affectionately, before giving his nose a big lick. Derek pushed his nose into Stiles's neck, nibbling and nuzzling. He huffed when Stiles pushed him playfully with his shoulder, before he returned the gesture.

Stiles gave an adorable yip, before he started hopping around, dropping his head down between spread front paws and waggling his cute butt. Derek tackled him, taking amusement in his surprised yelp. They wrestled and rolled, licking and play nipping at each other, before they tumbled tail over ears down an incline.

When they hit the bottom, they were human again, naked and covered in leaves. They were also laughing hysterically, and they did so until they couldn't breathe. Derek was grinning ear to ear, breathing in the clean night air and running his hands along Stiles's back and arms. Stiles lifted his head off of his chest, and Derek's throat closed up at what he saw.

Stiles's eyes were glowing purple.

Later when they managed to get back to the house, they fell asleep together in each other's arms.

###### 

Stiles asked Derek to wait to call a pack meeting until he could manage to appear and disappear at will. It took a couple days, but he managed it. Though Derek could always feel where he was even when he wasn't visible. 

The pack meeting consisted of Scott, Allison, Isaac, Lydia, Aiden, Danny, Ethan, Deaton, and Jonathan Stilinski. They all looked different levels of agitated, from a low thrumming of nervousness like Allison and Isaac to a full on rage like Jonathan.

Derek stood in the archway between the living room and the entryway, trying to figure out how to phrase what he was going to tell them. It didn't help that Jonathan was trying to melt him with his eyes. He could feel Stiles at his elbow, and that helped. 

“What is this about, Hale?” Jonathan asked, apparently having grown impatient with the silence.

Shit, okay, just say it. “Stiles is here,” Derek said, and eyes popped wide all around (save for Deaton). “He wanted me to call this meeting to—“

“Oh, I don't fucking think so,” Jonathan barked, interrupting and starting toward him like an oncoming storm. “You think that's funny? Playing on our pain like—“

Stiles was suddenly there in between Derek and his father like a blink, and Jonathan's words died as his face lit up with shock. Derek felt that ease of tightness in his chest that came with each time Stiles materialized, a relief that he was still able to.

“I am here, Dad,” Stiles said, holding his hand out behind him, and Derek took it immediately, moving to his side. “I'm Derek's mate. I'm pack.” He smiled as the faces around them softened. “And I'm not going anywhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> Once again thank you to the fantastic [WhatTheHale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthehale) for the read. You should have seen this before she got her hands on it. Oi, not pretty. I called Stiles "Stioes" and Scott "Scoot." This is why editing is important.
> 
> So I explored the whole range of human emotion with this one. I totally cried for the first third of the story. 
> 
> Hope you liked it! Feedback is my sustenance!


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